


Mockingbird

by spellwing777



Category: Watchmen (Comic), Watchmen - All Media Types
Genre: Anti-fixit, BDSM, HJ is not a nice guy, He's also a borderline pedo, It Ends Badly, M/M, Nelson is a floormat, The Minutemen - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-17
Updated: 2016-08-17
Packaged: 2018-08-09 07:42:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7792825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spellwing777/pseuds/spellwing777
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the Kinkmeme gift exchange, a present for a Nelly/HJ fan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_"And if that mockingbird don't sing..."_

_The drunken, German-accented refrain drifted in through his window, left open a crack on the muggy July night. Even dead asleep that voice dragged him out of sleep, fear and adrenaline diffusing through his system long before he was even fully awake._

_"Daddy gon' buy you a diamond ring."_

_His back is a riddle of healing wounds from the last drinking binge, and he can feel every one of them acutely, like just being near him brings them back to life._

_"An' if that diamond ring turn to brass..."_

_Heavy boots clattered across the porch floorboards, and he heard the back door whine as it squealed open. The steps across the fraying carpet in the living room were softer, but he could still hear them in the nighttime silence. It was like the whole world was holding it's breath with him._

_He stayed still. If he stayed still and held his breath, maybe he would pass on by, maybe-_

_"Daddy gonna buy you ah..."_

_The boots paused in the hall, a few feet from his room, and he tenses._

_"Scheiße."_

_The boots move on. He hears the familiar creak and groan of old mattress springs and he relaxes, sliding back into dreams._

At the age of fifteen, he becomes a cliché. He doesn't _mean_ to, but the local circus did have an opening, and with the potential to get far, far away from his childhood home is just too tempting. He's a bulky kid even at fifteen, so he finds plenty of work. Years later he's one of the main attractions, lifting trapeze artists on each of his broad arms. He also attracts admirers, women who like to cling to him. But every time he looks down at the slender arms reaching out, he can see how easy they'd bruise. How easy they'd break. It makes him sick that he feels a little thrill every time he imagines it. Keeps to himself instead, spends his nights in his trailer, alone with just his beer bottles and damnable temper. 

He's his father's son after all, no matter how much running he does.

\---

Las Vegas is the kind of place where all of the conventions of other cities don't stick, and every kind of vice is for sale. If it exists and it's bad for you, it's here. He and some friends stumble into the red-light district, and that's where his eyes are opened.

Finding out about the seedy subculture of sadomachisum is like a epiphany. There are people out there who _want_ to be hurt, people who have that deep, aching need to feel the sting of the lash, and they need it just as badly as he wants to give it out. Some are just bored perverts, needing something new than just the standard missionary position. Other's are from strict households that want an authority figure to feel validated. Others are guilty of sin, either real or imagined, and want to flagellate themselves to feel absolved of it. Whatever the reason, he'll take it. He learns to use a cane, belt, cuffs and gags, but more than that, how much to hurt people. What to do, what to say, to make them arch and whine. He doesn't care so much about the gender of who he's dealing out pain too, it's more about how much they like it. He sticks to men though; doing this too a woman brings up sick memories of his father beating his mother and it feels uncomfortably similar, no matter how much they assure him that they want it. He's just happy to finally feel validated; that he's found a willing group of people to feed that sick need to feel like he had power over another human being. He loves the way they look at him, eyes wide and glazed over with lust and awe. He likes the way they grovel at his knees, helpless and hopeless, begging to be possessed. He's no psychologist, but he knows in a undefined and roundabout way, that it soothes the helpless child he used to be, unable to protect himself as he his drunken father beat him around and belittled him. Still, for all that, there's something missing.

Tired of traveling, he settles in New York as a bouncer. He's always liked this city. It's teeming crowds make his strangeness-with his shaved head and massive frame and...tastes-seem a little less strange when compared to the millions around him. It also has a huge underground wrestling culture, where he could potentially make wads of cash in a single night. He's always loved wrestling, some of his fondest memories including sneaking out of the house when his father passed out on the couch. He'd head downtown and sneak into to watch the performance, cheering Tom 'The Tornado' as he flung men out of the ring. Years of being a performer and his natural strength and skill makes him a shoe-in for it. However, since it's informal, it's not really policed by any rules so rigging and being targeted by sore losers and the mafia isn't unheard of. It's easy to come up with a stage name and a costume, and he wins a lump sum of cash his first night. The cash is good, but it's just as nice to hear the roar of the crowd again too as throws his opponent out of the ring. He'd missed it.

He walks home after, still in costume. He figured he'd change somewhere along the way, when he was sure he wasn't being followed by the jackass he'd beat in the ring. The man had the audacity to call him a cheat, and he wouldn't put it past him to try and harass him. He did _not_ want some dick stalking him around his house and workplace. He was halfway home before he was sure, and headed over to a store to use their bathroom to change in. The moment he walks in he can see two thugs wearing ski masks threatening the store clerk, and he feels his blood boil.

The rest is history.

\---

Most men would have probably never gotten The Idea. They would have patted themselves on the back, accepted the gratitude that was due them, and then never done it again. Wearing a costume and going around beating up criminals was for the insane, or people in comic books. But for the second time in his life, Rolf has an epiphany. This was what had been looking for, this was that last little frustrating puzzle piece of his life. All those encounters in seedy hotel rooms had missed it. They had only been performances, plays. It missed the raw, real edge of terror that he'd seen in the faces of those two men last night at the store. In that moment he'd had their lives in the palm of his hands, and they knew it. The rush of power burned away all the cheap thrills he'd gotten with his previous encounters. It was beautiful how strong it had felt and how much it resonated, better than any rush he'd felt before.

(Some little part of him felt dread though, like he'd encountered something that just might destroy him, but he ignored it.)

Before long, he was hearing of others. What he was doing apparently resonated with others, pulling them into the scene for various reasons. Some for good, noble reasons, others...not so much.

Nite Owl was there for the good it could do and the thrill of finally being released from the regulations and red tape of being a beat cop. Admirable, but they often fought over him being too violent, too rough on the criminals. It made him angry and resentful, because he was right. The Silk Specter was obviously just here for the fame and to advance her acting career, all too willing to be led around by the nose by her agent Larry, but he couldn't really resent her. He'd be a hypocrite if he did, because it's not as if he was here _only_ to make the world a better place. Bill was only there because it was his job, a bought and paid for guard dog that also was a marketing ploy. He was also a born and bred conservative catholic, and it rubbed him the wrong way when it showed how damn gay he was for Jesus. Mothman was a bored, eccentric trust fund kid, here for the excitement, but he was actually a little fond of him. He was the only one besides Nite Owl that actually wanted to do some good along with getting his thrills, but he didn't say a peep when he beat a man into the pavement. The Comedian he hated, but everyone in their group did. He was an amoral opportunist that just wanted to beat people up and only stayed on the good side so he wouldn't get tossed into jail. The only reason he was kept in the group because it was better to have him here where someone could keep an eye on him.

The Silhouette, though, was who he really resented. She was the only one that didn't care about fame, about money, about anything other than justice. He was the one with the 'Justice' in his name, but she made him feel like a hypocrite, and the worse thing was, he was sure she knew it. She never said anything when beat up the latest perp, but her black eyes would narrow, and he could feel the suspicion in her stare.

Lastly, Captain Metropolis was pretty much the same as Mothman at first glance, a billionaire looking for excitement, but different in that he actually tried to apply his previous military experience to their little group, although it didn't always work.

However, at second glance, it seemed Rolf wasn't the only one with ulterior motives for doing this.

It was after a really rough night. He and the Captain had interrupted a turf war between two gangs, and the two groups had decided to unite against them. They had been able to take them all on, but Captain Metropolis had taken a beating and even he had a few black and blue marks from lucky hits. Captain Metropolis was shaking though, probably from the remnants of adrenaline, and from pain. He'd been beaten pretty badly. He tried to shrug off his offer of assistance though.

"I'm fine." He insisted, despite the tremor in his voice, and started to limp away.

"I'll walk you to headquarters." He rumbled.

"I'm fine." He insisted, and Rolf growled.

He grabbed his shoulder in a firm grip. "No your not. You need medical care-"

"I'm fine!" His voice scaled up, and he actually saw what looked like fear flash in his eyes. He narrowed his eyes, and Captain Metropolis licked his lips, subconsciously lingering on the bleeding split in it. He watched, feeling a slow understanding beginning to form. He let him go, watching him stagger home.

He didn't let him get very far though.


	2. Chapter 2

He'd like to say he was surprised, but really, he wasn't.

Captain Metropolis had only managed to get three blocks away before he'd ducked into an alley. Pathetic. It was even worse that the man didn't hear his approach, too engrossed in what he was doing to keep an eye on his surroundings, despite his military training.

He paused to take it in, enjoying the view. The blond was leaning against the wall, curled over himself as he sucked hard at his split lip, hand in his pants like some guilty kid as he worked his cock. His eyes were actually closed, squeezed shut, and he had to shake his head at the guy's carelessness. He wondered if he might actually cum before he noticed he was there, and he cleared his throat. He started, and whipped his hand out, looking around wildly. He spotted him, and started to shake.

"It's not...it isn't-"

"It isn't-" He stepped in close. " _What?_ "

"I'm not a...a, uh..."

The vulnerability in those eyes was beautiful. Too good to resist.

He put a hand on the wall and leaned in claustrophobically close. Now, he could be wrong. He could be straight, with no interest in men. He _could _be; but what did he have to lose if he was? He started again as he touched his thigh, and he spread his broad hand, letting him feel the power and strength in it. The blond started to sweat, cringing under him and trying to melt into the wall, and he could practically taste his shame.__

__"Would you like-" He growled, his fingers curling and digging into the skin "Some help with that?"_ _

__Nelson's eyes bulged. He'd always been attracted to Hooded Justice; his mouth would go dry with mingled lust and fear whenever he beat a man to the very brink of 'too far', but this seemed a little too good to be true. Inner caution said that this was a very bad idea, but he found himself nodding and making a small, helpless noise when that broad hand slid up his thigh. It slid up and cupped him and he tried to curl around it, but his other hand came down and grabbed his hair, jerking him up roughly, making him stand on tiptoe. He whined pathetically as his erection was lazily palmed, and nearly cried out when that broad hand made its way into his pants._ _

__"Quiet." He growled low. "Next time, I'll take you to where you can scream all you want."_ _

___Next time?_ He thought dizzily, but he didn't have the time to process that before his pants where being yanked down, exposing him to the air. His cock was only bare for a moment though, and then it was wrapped in that broad hand. He squeezed, almost to the point of pain, then stroked hard. He came embarrassingly quickly, and as soon as he did, he was released and he fell to the alley floor onto his knees. He heard the clink of a belt buckle, and before he'd even gotten his breath back his hair was grabbed again and yanked back to face the other man's cock. He flushed, knowing full well what the other man was expecting but he'd never actually gotten to do this. He'd only ever snuck hand jobs while in the service, the slim availability of partners stalling him from ever doing more, not to mention his own shyness because of his sick fetishes._ _

__He probably sensed Nelson's reluctance, and tightened his grip on his hair. "Turnabout is fair play."_ _

__He licked his lips, and cautiously mouthed the tip. Thankfully his partner was patient and let him work, and he gradually got up the courage. He'd always wondered what it would be like, and he was finding it wasn't as bad as he'd feared. The man's cock was thick though, and he had to fight to wrap his lips around the broad head, so he tried to make up for being unable to fit all of in his mouth by licking and mouthing the sides. He gradually got more enthusiastic, slobbering and making a mess, but Hooded Justice didn't seem to mind, growling encouragingly. At one point Nelson stilled and just let him thrust shallowly into his mouth, sucking and licking as best as he could, the threat of chocking on him there but never a fact._ _

__"I'm going to come." He purred. "And you are going to swallow."_ _

__Nelson moaned, realizing he probably should be annoyed that it was assumed that he would and wasn't getting a choice, but the authority in his tone and the blatant disregard for his opinions was hitting on some of his more dearly held kinks. Some small part of him wondered how the hell the man just _knew_ , but most of him was more focused on the cock in his mouth and his hand on his own half-hard dick, working himself back into full hardness. He whined helplessly as cum slicked his tongue, and he did his best to swallow all of it. He slid out, and then just watched as he jacked off furiously, sucking hard on his own split lip. He came, for the second time this night, and Hooded Justice chuckled darkly._ _

__"Enjoy yourself?"_ _

__"Y-yes sir." He said, shakily putting himself to rights. Self-consciousness was already creeping in, but the other man didn't seem to have that problem. He even bent down to cup his cheek, rubbing over a blossoming bruise, the thumb digging in cruelly. He made a helpless noise and surged into it, relishing the pain, and Hooded Justice purred._ _

__\---_ _

__Nelson's not really sure what to make of it._ _

__He never takes off the mask. He doesn't tell him his name, although Nelson has started calling him 'HJ' in his head, though never to his face. He doesn't give any personal information either, and everything is strictly anonymous. He has a feeling he should demand more, but the anonymity is a turn on. They patrol together, and afterwards he takes Nelson into sordid, terrifying, thrilling places that he'd never dared step into before. Every time he thinks they might have gone to far, done to much, but he's all consuming and Nelson finds himself holding his breath as he's pulled over boundaries, too caught up in this to say no. At the end of every session he's left gasping, shaking, feeling used in the best way, so he lets him do what he likes and doesn't say the safe word, not just because he doesn't want to, but because he's afraid of what might happen if he does._ _

__And at this point, Hooded Justice could get him to do almost anything, even risky things like taking advantage of the workout room at headquarters even though he knows one of their team mates could walk in at any minute. Part of the rush is the threat of getting caught, and even as his stomach roils with anxiety at the thought, the spike of adrenalin make the pleasure sharper. Tonight they should be safe though, because they'd been working late and everyone else had already gone home._ _

__Nelson shivers in anticipation as he's efficiently stripped. It's a little chilly in the room, so he shivers a bit and his skin breaks out in goose bumps. He knows he wont be cold for long though, not with the kind of punishment that HJ has in mind. He's already started to squirm in anticipation, and HJ chuckles, securing his wrists to the pull-up bar. His ankles are tied as well, and slips the ring on over his half-hard cock, until it sits snugly at the base of his cock and balls. Now HJ does his usual walk-around, examining him from every angle. It's like having a shark circle before striking, and Nelson shivers in both fear and lust. He flexes his muscles, just to show off, because he knows how well-cut he is, and the stark half-light in the workout room highlights every curve. His admirer makes a low, growling noise of approval, and strokes over his flank like he is a beautiful, well-loved animal, making him shiver._ _

__The crack of a belt over his skin is, as always, both expected and unexpected; swinging out of nowhere to strike the back of his right thigh and leave his skin burning in the best kind of pain. A pause, to let the pain sink in, then another swing on the left. He kept doing that, varying the hits, and in between each one he'd reach around to the front and stroke his cock until he was fully hard, his erection bobbing with every hit. Slowly, teasingly, he palms Nelson's balls, and lightly slaps them. He yelps and jumps, surprised. They'd never incorporated ball play before, and it's not something he would ever actively _choose_. Like most men, the idea of hitting those would make him reflexively cringe and snap his legs shut. It's painful, but a different pain from just getting belted. It's like a static shock, sharp as a needle and unpleasant but he's not going _soft_ and it's the strangest thing. HJ does it again, and just as quickly strokes him from root to tip. The sharp, unpleasant pain mixes with the pleasure into one of the strangest, intense feelings he'd ever had, and his brain just cant decide if it he loves it or absolutely hates it. He shakes and squirms, and now he knows why HJ made sure to secure his ankles tightly because his knee-jerk reaction is to kick._ _

__Behind him, HJ laughs, delighted at the way he squirms. He'd wanted to try this with Nelson is damn close to coming, but the light slaps to his balls keeps him from ever actually reaching it, and he makes a frustrated wail. HJ ran his broad hands up and down his quivering flanks soothingly, bringing him back from the edge a little, and starts to slick up his hole. He worked his fingers in deep, jumping from two to four in quick succession, the stretch huge and burning. And then he presses in, and its the best feeling of violation. Nelson wails uncontrollably as HJ starts to hammer in, teeth in his neck and his hips gripped so tight he'll have bruises. He ground almost painfully against that little bundle of nerves that make him see stars, and it's taking everything he has not to come._ _

__"May-may I c-come, sir?" He gasps._ _

__"Such a polite slave." HJ purred, reaching down to squeeze his erection almost to the point of pain. Nelson whines, and tries to arch up into that grip, and he finally he takes pity on him._ _

__"Come for me." He commands, and strokes him firmly. Nelson practically screams as he comes, shaking, clenching tight around him. HJ growls, and ruts in as deep as he can go, shooting inside._ _

__It's partly because he'd come so hard that he doesn't notice the shadow that lingers for a fleeting second in the doorway._ _


	3. Chapter 3

When it's too good to be true, it usually is.

Nelson knows he can’t really call this thing a relationship, but some little part of his mind wants to treat it like one. Probably the part of his mind that had been trained from birth to expect the white picket fence, 2.5 kids, and a loving wife making cookies kind of hallmark crap. And it's part of why he so angry when he hears about HJ taking prostitutes off the streets. They're well paid and it's very discreet, but he finds out anyway despite the other man's precautions. He probably shouldn't have confronted him, but he's been around him for so long he's become inured to the fact the HJ is a very strong man with a temper. But its not jealousy that fuels it entirely. It's just...he was so young. He doubted he was even _legal_. And the bruises on the boy's arms are so much more livid when its on pale, skinny limbs. He's not too young to see trouble coming on the horizon though, and swiftly gathers his things in the peripheral of Nelson's vision. He doesn't pay him much mind though, he's too busy glaring at the other man, who hasn't even pulled his pants up.

"You owe me 150 bucks." He said, casually.

Nelson twitched, feeling disgust creep in. "How old is he?"

He shrugged.

It's the casualness that really gets him. Before he's even really thought about it, he's crossed the intervening distance and slapped him like the spurned wife in a soap opera. And before the echo stilled, he was on his back, a hand around his throat. He gasped helplessly on the cheap linin of the hotel bed, crushed by the HJ's suffocating weight.

"Never figured you for the jealous type." He huffed, sounding mildly amused.

"We-we-" Nelson squirmed, "I thought we had-"

"There is no 'we'." He growled. "We patrol, and we fuck. No candlelight dinners, no long walks."

His grip tightened. "Understand?"

Nelson gasped, the lack of oxygen making him dizzy, and just managed to nod. HJ released him, and stood up, nonchalantly fixing his belt. Nelson watched him leave, the understanding sinking in. He may have felt what they did was special, meant something, but he now saw himself how he should have seen himself a long time ago: just another whore in a long line of them. The only difference was that they got paid.

\---

After that, 'rocky' is probably the best way to describe their relationship. They argue, they fight, but to Nelson's shame he does always give in to the sex that follows. Every time though, he cant help but remember that the same hands that touch him have touched tricks half his age. It get's so bad that Larry employs Sally to be HJ's beard, hanging off his arm at every opportunity. HJ dislikes her vapid, slavish obedience to Larry, but he doesn't complain. He needs to stay a vigilante if he wants to feed the gaping maw that calls for blood and flesh on fists. It has become more and ravenous, and his teammates have become quieter, but it's an ominous silence that makes his skin prickle.

Except for The Silhouette. Her gaze made him feel as judged as ever, and his hatred of her got stronger and deeper.

Personal history and recorded history finally converge and collide, and it's messy. Hollis will write about in a couple of years, and most of the facts are already there. Still, there are sordid little details that he left out of his edited book, and some that he was never privy too, and it goes something like this:

Evening, after a photo-shoot, and all Hooded Justice wants to do is to leave this dog and pony show. He spent his formative years as a performer, so he can recognize that they've become little more than a sitcom for the masses. It's disgusting, but he doesn't complain. He's only here for the violence. The only objector is The Silhouette, who says they should focus on actually fighting crime, not showing off. She especially works tirelessly to find kidnapped children that have been snapped up by the sex trade. A noble line of work, but too seedy for their televised audience, Larry says. Nite Owl helps where he can, but their efforts are downplayed and swept under the rug. Larry is further encouraged by Sally, who has an extreme dislike for her and will take any opportunity to get petty revenge on her rival. It's not a secret Sally and her are mortal enemies, and he can sympathize with Sally on this one. The Silhouette has a way of calling out hypocrisies, and no one likes the fact that you are a fake thrown in your face. He knows that Sally hates her for calling her out on it, and for The Silhouette being so goddamn right about it.

Speaking of Sally, she detaches herself from his arm to go change, and he waits for her to come back. It rankles him that he waits for her like a trained dog, but he has no choice. Sally is just a costume prop and has no real fighting skills, so it falls to him to protect her on patrol. He may not like her, but the idea of her getting hurt unsettles him on a deep, instinctual level that was probably born of hearing his own mother scream as his father thrashed her again.

_Speaking of screams..._

The faint shriek pulls him down the hall like iron filling to a magnet. He doesn't think or say a word, and the others milling around that didn't hear the faint scream just look at him in confusion as he barrels back into headquarters. He doesn't stop to say anything to them, and he's glad he didn't hesitate when he can see the tubule in front of him when he gets back to where Sally said she was going to change, The Comedian is bent over her like the animal he is, and everything he'd suspected about the kid is true. It's not a surprise, not with him, but one look at Sally's bleeding, split lip and he feels the snarling rage unfurl in his chest. He is nine years old again, and his father is beating his mother. This time, though, he has three decades and 200 pounds more muscle than his tiny, quivering, nine-year-old self.

He squeals like a pig, and tries to make excuses when he plucks him off her, but if falls on deaf ears. When he punches and he has to spit his pleas past bloody lips, its the best satisfaction he's ever felt. He's never felt so goddamn _righteous_ , like an angel raining down divine retribution on the deserving. His old man may be dead and gone, but this little brat is a great stand-in. And he probably would have beaten him-probably would have _killed_ him-if not for a few words, barely audible.

"This is what gets you hot?"

_So this_

_So this is what_

_what gets you-_

He stops, holding him in midair, and The Comedian grins at him, his mocking words still echoing. All that righteous anger has twisted around like a viper and sunk it's fangs in him, and he feels his stomach drop. He has the sinking feeling that he and his hated father have more in common than he'd ever want to admit. He drops him, disgusted both with this vicious (truthful) child...and himself. Eddie scuttles off, promising retribution like some serial villain on a cartoon, but his threats pale in comparison to the earlier words he spoke. He snaps at Sally to get dressed, some part of him realizing he was being unnecessarily harsh, but he's not in the right frame of mind to think about it.

Sally doesn't press charges, and makes excuses for him. Larry is also in agreement, all to willing to save face with the threat of a potential scandal. He's disgusted by both of them, but mostly at Sally for being so cowardly. She is like his mother, always making excuses for his father, to afraid and blind to do what was better for herself and him. All too ready to let him beat her until she died from it, leaving him as the sole bearer of his rage. Larry is no better than she, a man only interested in appearances, despite what he says about it being 'such a shame'. Apparently it isn't shameful enough to get the bastard thrown behind bars, not if it ruins the appearance of his pet project.

But he is too much of a hypocrite to say anything. He's just like his father, he realizes, no matter how far he runs.

This event is what marks the beginning of the end for the Minutemen. After The Comedian is thrown out, The Silhouette is next. Her homosexuality is too exposed to be covered up by any amount of propaganda. Photos of her and her lover kissing near the window in their flat had been caught by some serial stalker, and sent to the local presses. Her name is smeared everywhere, threatening to dissolve the minutemen unless they wash their hands of her. Larry is as oily as always, but it doesn't take much conviction for them to pass the vote. He is aware of the hypocrisy that exists, him being a homosexual himself, voting her out and decrying her sexual orientation. All he cares about, though, is never having to endure her accusing stare again. Dollar Bill, of course, votes her out, quoting a _bible verse_ of all things. It takes everything he has not to belt him. Nelson, too, votes her out, too cowardly to look her in the eye. He has nothing personal against her, but he knows that if he doesn't vote her out, he might be next. Sally is an immediate yes, ready for any petty victory, but she is also disgusted with her sexuality, her lip curled, her arms across her breasts like she's afraid The Silhouette is looking at them.

Only Hollis and Byron stand up for her. They were the ones that worked with her the most, and are appalled that she is being let go, defending her integrity, her efforts in taking down sex trafficking rings that take advantage of vulnerable children. The orphans, runaways from abusive homes, the children forgotten by society. All those lives saved by her efforts are for naught though; as soon as the populace see her engaging in unnatural relations with a woman, she is a pariah. And they will be too, if they don't rid themselves of her.

The motion passes.

\---

After Bill gets shot, the minutemen limp along until the advance of the red scare. It's the last nail in the coffin for them as the few remaining members are unmasked. HJ would rather die than expose his identity, and goes rouge, never to be seen again. Nelson is not really sorry to see him go. Towards the end the man had become abusive and even more violent, nearly killing people once or twice, not to mention his continuing relations with prostitutes. Nelson retires, afraid of the scrutiny that might unearth his less-than platonic relations with HJ. Hollis does the same soon after, and starts on his book. Byron-the poor man-is finally dragged off to the bug house and Hollis, his doggedly loyal friend, is the only visitor.

It's understandably depressing, and it's a particularly dreary day that Nelson wanders down to the basement. He's kept everything with the dream of finally donating it to a museum, but never gotten around to it. He even kept copies of case files The Silhouette had worked on. He's kept them out of guilt, for his part in exiling her, especially after she was killed by a second-rate villain with a forgettable name, the same obsessive stalker that had taken the photos that resulted in such a scandal. Hollis and Byron had captured him and he was rotting in jail now, but it didn't make her death any less of a burden.

He sighed and flipped through the album. So many children from broken homes, poor children, minority children, children that would not be missed, if not for her unflinching investigation. The case files were gritty and very depressing, and he wonders if she hadn't been killed, she might have ended up sharing the same room with Byron upstate. He keeps flipping, and it's an extensive list of victims, pimps and buyers. Pictures too, and he skims before stopping abruptly.

He knows that face.

He stares, transfixed, at the photo of a pale, young boy. His file says '13', 'missing for three years' 'body found' and his stomach sinks as he sees the long, depressing list of clients. The most frequent one is Rolf, a man who's picture also appears in another folder, a patron of many different boys. His face is unfamiliar, but he'd recognize the small, circular burns on his upper right arm anywhere. The file starts to shake as he slowly realizes the man that he'd been with for years-had almost fallen in love with-had sex on a frequent basis with not just teenage prostitutes, but _really_ underage prostitutes that hovered just on the line of him being a pedophile. And-knowingly or unknowingly-he'd been associating with pimps that were part of a huge ring that preyed on children. 

He also remembers his temper. His anger. The strength he'd felt in those hands as it grasped his throat. How easily he could have killed him. How his anger and temper had been slowly escalating over the years he'd known him, until he'd been too afraid to stay in a relationship with him. The marks on the boy's neck are thick and purple. Like a broad hand, and the file says 'cause of death: suffocation.'

After a while, he stops shaking, and picks up the phone.

\---

Eddie's not sure who found out this bastard's name. His squealer had passed the info through a lotta different mouths like a game of telephone, so he's probably never gonna find the original source, but it's authentic, because he has the fucker in his sights and he's grinning like a mad dog. He would have shot the guy just for revenge, but learning this sick fuck has a record as bad as his own-what with all the underage prostitutes and killing one of them-just makes the joke even funnier.

He closes one eye, and squeezes the trigger.


End file.
